Monday, October 28, 2013

My Monday Hurdle

Dear Diary,

I was almost barfed on today.

Good way to start a Monday morning.

The poor kindergartner did not have the words to tell me how he was feeling.  He just cried in my lap and then --- *urp*  ----- that initial sound of the stomach commencing its emergency backup plan.

Uh. Oh.

I looked around for the nearest garbage can and almost got him to it in time.  Almost.

At least it wasn't on me.  Just a skosh on the floor.

Sometimes Mondays are like that. 

Sometimes Fridays are like that. 

It is a moment where you hope you just sailed --or stumbled-- over your highest hurdle of the day.

And then you go home, pop a Halls Defense drop, disrobe, and throw your clothes in the washing machine.  Then shower or, at the very least, scrub surgically up to the elbows.

And see what the rest of Monday brings.

Happy Monday!

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Does God's Waiting Room have A/C?

Dear Diary,

The weather is such a safe subject to discuss with friends or strangers. 
Lull in the conversation?  Talk about the weather. 
Meet a farmer?  Discuss the rain.
Got nothing to say to a three-year-old?  Talk about snow.
Need a blog topic?  Go no further!
It's the universal subject people can either complain about or revel in and not worry about being judged as a Lefty or a Righty.  (OK, perhaps I'd better keep Global Warming out of the conversation.)

As a warm weather-loving person, I still love my cool weather-loving friends.

My youngest, who is 10, is ready to move to Michigan. 
"Why?" I ask.
"There are no tornadoes or earthquakes, and there is a lot of snow," she immediately replies.  She has obviously thought this through.
Then I wonder if she was switched at birth because she is obviously not my child.

Once upon a time, long, long ago, I was fine with winter.
Slipping my stockinged feet into orange, Holsum bread bags before shoving them into not-so-water-proof Mickey Mouse boots was a normal part of winter play preparations.  That -- along with a double layer of pants (snow pants were not the norm at my house) -- was tolerated because when else could a girl dig a snow tunnel and make a snow fort?  I also remember my bright red stocking hat with a pom-pom the size of a baseball.  I loved it!

(Contrast this with almost every Florida vacation picture of me as a August. 
Hair wild from humidity and sweat, skin red with angry sunburn,
my grouchy, grumpy, squinty-eyed face mirroring my every thought under that bright, relentless sun.)

Now, as an adult, not only do I mentally cringe at the change to a colder season, but my body rebels.
Scratchy, sore throat.
Sinus pressure.
Dry eyes and nose.
Watery eyes and nose.

Now I understand why the "older set" like to migrate to places like Florida and Arizona --
states which have been jokingly called God's Waiting Room.
Someday it will be my joy to hang out there.

As long as there is air conditioning.


Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Childish Thoughts

Dear Diary,

I knew I needed to take my walk this morning, but I also had to run an errand. So I combined the two needs and walked the 3 miles round trip, with the dog, to get the utility bill into the village drop box.  This took me exactly one hour.

Half of my walk was in a no-sidewalk industrial park.  So I was dodging work trucks, macks and semis.  That, along with a dog who likes to sniff/mark every tree, post, and shrub, certainly did nothing to improve my time. (I also may have stopped for 5 minutes to rest at the gazebo and stare at the geese in the pond on the way home.)

On the return route, I was getting thirsty.  Almost parched.  It was warmer than I expected and I had overdressed.  Though I took off a layer, I had not brought any water.  My mouth was dry.

I allowed my imagination to revert to childish thoughts.
I imagined I was in a desolate urban landscape, my dog and I the sole survivors of a devastating, futuristic war. 
We must find water. 
Maybe a crust of bread to save for later.
Ach, never mind the bread, we must seek water or succumb to death.
We can't... fail.....must.... survive...

Fifteen minutes after that thought I was home, running filtered water into my cup and planning lunch.

But that brief, childish thought got me thinking about games I played in childhood.  Often they were games of peril, but they were always powered by imagination.

Like the time I would pretend my bed was a sinking boat in a sea of sharks, and my only means of escaping their dangerous jaws was by stepping on randomly placed pillows and stuffed animals on my floor.  This scenario was played out in various forms of doom and demise, including red-hot volcanic lava or an alligator-filled swamp.

Or the time after the dinner hour, when the sun was setting, casting a golden trail between the close-set houses of my neighborhood.  Our front yards were bathed with light, but our backyards were dark save for the gold-paved "road" that led to our back fence. This was a scene just begging for me to link
arm-in-arm with my neighbor friend and belt out "Weeeeeee're OFF to see the wizard, the Wonderful Wizard of Oz!" while skipping down the "yellow brick road."

Or playing board games or hide-out in a blanketed fort or backyard tent. 

Or saving a big refrigerator box and turning it into a play store.  This was a great game considering that my neighbor's dad was an office supply salesman.  Plenty of envelopes, paper clips and rubber bands for our store shelves, complete with carbon-copy receipts to write on!

This is where my mind goes when I am thirsty during an arduous walk. 

I hope this inspires you to take your own journey into childhood.
Just don't forget your water bottle.


Friday, October 4, 2013

Dissed by a Dog

Dear Diary,

I would call this story a Charlie Brown moment.
An embarrassing, this is not happening to me in front of all these people, kind of moment.

There we were, my daughter and I, in the lobby of the kennel pet resort, awaiting our beloved Charlie's release.

We had returned from a most fabulous weekend, a most memorable weekend, with my parents and family.  A rare opportunity for the family to jet set to southern climes and return home in a record two nights.  But celebrating the 50 years of marriage of two people we love tremendously calls for such adventure.

We arrived at the "resort" at our appointed time slot on a Sunday; a one-hour window in which to check out our canine before being charged another night.  We found ourselves in a line with other owners anxious to see their "babies" again.

We smiled in anticipation as leashed dogs were brought through The Door, tails wagging and tongues licking as they made a beeline to their people. (The Door = the only portal connecting the lobby from the elusive but noisy back rooms where the dogs are kept.)

It was fun to see what kind of four legged creature would emerge next for a happy reunion with its owner.

Then came our turn. 
Payment made. 
Personal effects handed over. 
Retreat behind The Door.
(A moment now to imagine our happy hound's reaction to seeing us in the lobby.  I guessed it would be similar to the Kermit and Miss Piggy scene in the original Muppet Movie, where they run through flowered fields for an embrace.)
The Door opens.
Charlie bounds through, and then scampers right past us to investigate the others in the lobby awaiting their turn.

I think I may have turned red with embarrassment.  I gave my daughter at look.
Charlie, we missed you, did you miss us?  Huh boy?  Huh?
Even my enthusiastic baby talk did nothing to turn his attention back to us, his own people.
No wagging at our feet, no jumping up on our legs.

Not exactly the reunion I was anticipating.
Flat out apathy from man's best friend.

A time when I can look back and say without a doubt,
Yup, I was dissed by my dog.

Good grief!